


Spun

by houndsoflove



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Allusions to Drugged Sex, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, I Don't Even Know, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:37:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houndsoflove/pseuds/houndsoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal, Newt, and a drug made from Kaiju.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spun

**Author's Note:**

> The apocalypse is cancelled, and Newt's sudden redundancy drives him straight into the clutches of Hannibal Chau. 
> 
> All I offer now is my sincerest apologies.

The Throat closed. Hannibal lived.

 

Doctor Geiszler trod the ruined streets of Hong Kong with purpose. He followed the trail of salvaged Kaiju parts (comprised of whatever the government hadn’t snapped up), and, sure enough, landed straight back at the golden feet of Mr Chau. Newt was surprised by this turn of events; Hannibal looked none the worse for having been gobbled up by Kaiju spawn, save for the superficial burns etched into his skin by potent gastric acid.

“ _Hao jiu bu jian le_ ,” intoned Hannibal in a thunderous voice, his phrasing as thick as molasses. The thugs around him chuckled darkly.

“Yeah, the same to you,” replied Newt with difficulty, picking himself up from off the floor of the lobby. “I’ll get straight to the point - I hear you’re still in the Kaiju business.”

“And?”

There was an expectant pause. Newt seized the opportunity.

“I got no place to go. I need work - anything - look, they’ve taken away all my lab stuff. It's finished. The whole show’s gone on the road...” Newt trailed off. The room stared at him intently.

Hannibal stuck his tongue into his cheek. “What’s in it for me?”

“I don’t know,” said Newt pathetically, his enthusiasm, tempered with desperation, quickly losing momentum . He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Nevertheless, Hannibal appeared to be thinking it over. At length he crossed the room. _Clink. Clink. Clink_. Newt defied the urge to shrink back.

“Listen,” began Hannibal, drawing in and looking Newt over, possibly taking in his filthy clothes and straggly beard - Newt couldn’t tell while he wore those red-tinted specs. “You can work on the stuff I got. Christ knows there’s not much going round these days. Shit is gold dust.”

“Thank you,” mumbled Newt, stunned at his success. A heavy hand clamped over the back of his neck, and Hannibal flashed him a gold-capped grin.

“Here’s what I want you to do.”

 

Newt shucked off his jacket and yanked on his gloves. His heart was racing.

Hannibal had shown him into a gloomy bunker beneath an anonymous sidestreet. The only source of light was a narrow grate in the ceiling; the city clamoured over it, oblivious.

He snapped on his torch and maneuvered around a hospital trolley, which had more than likely been swiped from a morgue; on it lay a section of superbly preserved Kaiju mandible. He would have been happier with an actual organ - another brain being at the top of his list - but this was a start. He bent down, scalpel in hand, but a sudden pounding in his head made him twitch and hiss. Blue sparks fired behind his eyes. He blinked away sweat and gazed down at the scaly flesh. That world-saving drift had done damage. He knew it.

“The teeth, Doctor,” came a voice from behind him. He turned towards it. Hannibal filled the door with his gigantic silhouette, slashed with a hundred garish colours raining down from the city above.

Newt nodded and began to cut into the bloodless gums. What did he want teeth for? They were no use at all, unless you counted trophies for nutjobs or medicine of questionable benefit.

“Medicine?” he called out, humming with interest when he found that the tooth was actually fused to the skull itself, like a lizard's.

“None a’ ya concern.”

With great effort Newt removed the tooth and heaved it into the waiting arms of one of Hannibal’s grim companions.

“Couldn’t you have gotten one of your creepy harvesting buddies to do this shit?” Newt huffed, glaring, wiping his forehead on his bare arm.

“Don’t go looking a gift horse in the yap, maggot,” returned Hannibal, bristling. “You’re the only one who really knows his way around these bastards. I need everything intact - no butchering.” He picked up a bonesaw and placed it in Newt’s slimy palm. “Now. The whole set, if you please.”

 

Newt spent almost the entirety of the following three months inside that tiny bunker, keeping busy with each new whim of Hannibal’s; teeth, scales, vials of acidic saliva. A stone-faced man with a bitten-off ear provided him with two phlegmy servings of congee a day, or maybe feng zhao, if he was feeling generous.

Sleep was scarce. A fierce, prickling pain had made its home deep within his skull. He was plagued with nightmares; nightmares that were intense, horribly real, filled with sharp-toothed mouths like caverns and bone-shaking, inhuman screams - they shook him into fevered wakefulness every night, without fail. He would ball himself up beneath the thin sheets of his makeshift bed and press his fingers into his tattooed arms, wondering if, at long last, his adulation had taken him too far.

 

Hannibal liked to watch.

Newt found this particular habit unnerving, but pressed on with his work regardless. Sometimes Hannibal would pace round and round the tiny basement, or observe silently from the door, or stand directly behind him, looking over his shoulder. Newt tried to ignore him, stiff-backed and terrified.

One day, while Newt was elbow-deep in vitreous humour, Hannibal grabbed him roughly by the arm and tugged him out of the bunker, up through the corridors and airless staircases and into the smoky dark of his richly furnished quarters. Newt glanced around fearfully. There had to be a way to escape. It suddenly became clear to him that he’d finally exhausted his usefulness and was going to end up face-down in a sewer with a bullet in his spine.

But Hannibal only said, “You stink,”, and pushed him into the most enormous bathroom he’d ever seen in his life.

Newt, not always the most avid worshipper at the altar of personal hygiene, nonetheless scrubbed himself raw in a bath the size of a small swimming pool. The smell of decay had a tendency to cling to the hair and skin.

Hannibal reappeared while he was patting around for a razor to tackle his soapy beard with. Newt instantly shrunk in on himself, unable to hide in the fragranced green water.

Hannibal had a razor. He knelt down beside the bath and tilted Newt’s head upwards. This was it. He was only waiting for him to let his guard down; Newt was going to be bled like a pig in this fancy fucking tub. “Are you going to cut my throat?” he said numbly.

“What?” Hannibal’s tone suggested that this was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Why would I do that? What a waste!”

Newt supposed that this was a compliment coming from him.

Hannibal rolled up his sleeves.

“I can do this myself,” protested Newt.

Storm clouds gathered above Hannibal’s fogged-up glasses.

Newt’s hands dropped resignedly into the water. With that, Hannibal’s work began.

 

That night, Newt hovered nervously outside Hannibal’s private parlour, eyes skimming over the countless (and mostly tasteless) works of art that clogged every shelf and clung to every wall. He touched his cheek, which was smooth. He had new, clean clothes, although he had stubbornly shed the violently patterned silk jacket Hannibal had given him in favour of his beloved leather one. He pushed his old glasses up his nose, one of the lenses still cracked, which slightly marred his freshly-scrubbed look.

The phantom touch of Hannibal’s strangely gentle fingers made him shudder quite suddenly, like the tickle of unseen beetle’s legs. He wondered why Hannibal hadn’t shirked the duty of tidying him up onto one of his hangers-on, like he did with everything else. He supposed he should show him gratitude; after all, he had given him a bed to sleep in, food, a job...

The appearance of the beautiful, shaven-headed lady through the door beside him nudged him out of his thoughts. “He will see you now,” she said, pulling aside a beaded curtain.

“Come in,” called Hannibal, beckoning from where he reclined upon a leather chair. “Come taste the fruits of your labour.”

Newt took one hesitant step into the room. Hannibal lifted a jewelled finger, and the lady slipped obediently past him and out of the door. Then they were alone.

Hannibal toyed with an odd glass shape that sat on the low table before him. Small chunks of something green and faintly translucent, like cut diopside, tumbled around in its bulbous base. Newt’s eyes grew large from behind his busted specs.

“You’ve seen this shit before,” said Hannibal, with a wide, wide smile.

“In books,” said Newt, mouth dry. “Do you... do you make it here?”

“Are you nuts?” boomed Hannibal, waving the pipe around so that the rocks almost fell out. Newt jumped back. “This place is crawling with pigs. The location of the warehouse is top secret.” He flicked his balisong from an ample sleeve and thumbed the blade. “I deal in ingredients only. With your help, of course. It's my main line of business now.”

Newt nodded mutely, somewhat tangled in the bead curtain.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” said Hannibal smoothly after a pause, melting back into his chair. The blade told Newt that this was not a request. He crossed the room and awkwardly rounded the table, lowering himself onto the end of a chaise longue.

“Relax,” purred Hannibal. “Take off your jacket.”

Newt took off his jacket.

Hannibal held the pipe aloft to admire the rocks in the lamplight. “What names do you know it by?”

“Street? _Hisui_. The Kaiju fanatics like to get spun on the stuff, think it’ll get them connected.” Newt shuffled nervously. “But I’ve only read about it. Never seen it, or... or tried it.”

“Then tonight is your lucky night,” said Hannibal, his words peppered with laughter, a sound that was utterly devoid of mirth.

Newt balked. He reached for his jacket and pulled it into his lap. “No, no thank you, sir. I’m gonna go get back to work.”

“How’s the head?” Hannibal said sharply as Newt rose from his seat.

“What?”

“The migraines. The nosebleeds. Crying any blood yet?”

“It’s manageable,” said Newt levelly.

“Ulcers, from the pain meds?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with you.”

“I know what it’s like,” hissed Hannibal. “I know exactly what’s going on in that precious little brain of yours.” He leaned in, the leather upholstery creaking. Newt felt agitated, off-balance. A sudden peal of thunder vibrated in the walls.

“Forget the meds. Forget the blood. Forget the pain. I’ve got the answer, and it’s _all natural_.” Hannibal swirled the rocks, round and round, and they whispered against the glass.

“Sorry,” said Newt distantly, transfixed by the unearthly green, iridescent in the low light. “I’m not into... I don’t go in for...”

“Bullshit. This isn’t like getting chiefed in your mommy’s basement, kid.”

Hannibal brushed his fingers through the clutter on the table until he found a lighter with his emblem engraved on the golden casing. Newt looked on as he lifted the pipe and began to rouse a strange, faintly glowing smoke from the rocks, twisting the stem expertly. The smoke - alive and solid within the glass, emanating an unmistakable Kaiju shade of neon blue - clambered its way into Hannibal’s mouth. Newt watched him closely. Hannibal calmly turned in his seat and held out the pipe.

“Quick, now. The kick fades fast.”

Newt took it doubtfully, but felt that there was no other way to respond. _Rock and roll_ , he thought lamely, and brought it to his lips.

The hit was so immediate that Newt almost forgot who he was. His lungs expanded and kept on expanding, gorging on the smoke. He was certain he was getting bigger, growing taller, transforming into something monstrous - he was filling the room - soon he’d tower over Hannibal. His pulse was pounding in every capillary, an infrasonic thrum. What’s more, the needling pain in his head had all but vanished; it was replaced with something pure, something ecstatic and delicious. He exhaled a cloud of gossamer white, slumping forward until he almost slid off his chair. Hannibal was laughing.

“I want more,” said Newt, head lolling back, grinning, tugging at his vest. The room was sweltering. He wanted to stick his head out of the window, under the rain.

At some point Hannibal had taken back the pipe. Newt tried to prise it from his grip, pulling Hannibal with him.

“You can have more,” said Hannibal, “have as much as you want.” He took out his lighter again, drew circles under the rocks with the flame.

Newt inhaled deeply; it was more like drinking to quench an insatiable thirst. A beautiful fluorescence bled through the walls, tinged blue on his vision’s periphery. He laid back on the chaise and Hannibal’s colossal frame eclipsed the pathetic light of the ceiling fan. Those red glasses were gone - he was being stared at with one furious, junked-up eye.

Newt curled his fist around that nasty, expensive tie. He was hard, harder than he'd ever been in his entire life. Hannibal breathed a lungful of dragon smoke into the space between them, his golden shoes clinking like scales against the tiled floor. He hovered there, considering the little doctor beneath. The pipe was charred black. He drew again, and Newt made a baleful sound - time was ticking by, and every second said _more, more, more!_

Hannibal folded over him and exhaled in a great rush, their lips brushing. Newt indulged thankfully, sweat shivering out of every pore, beading in his hairline and pooling in the dip of his throat. His trembling fingers framed Hannibal’s belt buckle.

“What’s this?” said Hannibal, his voice flat and colourless amidst the riot of the drug.

Newt spoke into the hot angle of his jaw. “Gratitude.”

 

The rain was icy cold. Newt bellowed and shook the dirty water from his hair, scrambling uselessly against the sill as the street swung woozily to and fro below him.

Hannibal yanked him back through the window and threw him in a heap in the middle of the room.

Gasping, Newt dragged himself upright and dried himself with the bottom of his vest. His glasses appeared, held an inch in front of his nose.

“Even first time flyers don’t get to pull that shit with the boss.”

Newt snorted wetly. “You mean this circus has a code of conduct now?”

“Be very careful,” said Hannibal softly. The flat of his knife rasped against Newt’s cheek with a suddenness that made him flinch. “This clown knows a lot of fun tricks. Keep going and I’ll be pressed to give you a one-man show, little bambino.”

“You can’t scare me,” said Newt from the floor. The point of the blade tipped up his chin. “I enjoy these methods of persuasion.”

Hannibal made an amused noise, or it could have been displeased, for the onset of sobriety meant that emotion had swiftly decamped. He reached inside his coat and withdrew a little pouch.

“I’m curious."

Newt glanced between Hannibal’s hard-lined face and his cupped palm, over which he poured the contents of the pouch. He had more rocks - they were spilling out onto his hand, forming a small mound.

“I’m curious,” Hannibal said again, and there was the tiniest tremble in his voice. He was fighting, frustrated. The dark eyes of the lady shone through the beaded curtain. “What would you do for another chance to drift?”

Hannibal didn’t mean the drift that Newt had come to know - searing pain, burst vessels, the endless plummet into Leviathan’s jaws - but the real drift, where all was heat and delight and pleasure, where the bad things fell away.

Newt clamped his hands against Hannibal’s enormous thighs. He saw himself in the smeary mirror opposite - dishevelled, damp, clothes clinging like a second skin, glasses sliding unchecked to the tip of his nose - and faltered. Hannibal towered over him like a victorious Goliath.

Pain was slinking back between Newt’s eyes. His grip grew stronger. He looked up. The emblem on Hannibal’s buckle threw him a derisive wink.

“Ah,” sighed Hannibal, and this time he really did sound pleased. He brought out another pipe, a different one, carved out of black wood and tipped with gold. He crumbled a pinch of rock into the bowl. “So clever, Doctor. With just your hands you say ‘anything’.”

 

Newt continued his work as before, and with heightened enthusiasm, close to exhausting the dwindling supply of Kaiju remains.

Then there were stirrings in the womb of the Earth, and with them came a worldwide call for the gathering of experts. Newt’s head pounded at the news; with apprehension or excitement, he could not tell.

The _hisui_ had slowed to a trickle. Junkies in the Bone Slums dropped like flies after dosing up on rocks mixed with deadly shit to make them go further.

But with Hannibal, it was always pure. He had found Newt’s weakness, and Newt had found his.

The apocalypse was back on the doorstep, the hands of time were pointing to midnight - but who cared, when Hannibal was there to show him what it was to fuck on stardust?

 

* * *

 

Newt swallowed. His mouth was hot, bleachy. Many-ringed fingers slipped from the hair at the back of his head, a damp palm smoothing down past his ear. He looked up, licking the corners of his lips.

Hannibal reclined in his favourite chair, watching the rain while his pants hung lewdly open. He seemed preoccupied. “Hmm,” he said at last, rising from his seat. “G’night, kid.”

Newt watched him leave before climbing slowly into the chair himself. The pain in his head was a constant now, surging up on him in frequent, nauseating waves. The end was real. The end was close.

He sighed at the little morsels of rock that Hannibal has gifted him. He didn’t sleep at all now, but that was only a triviality. _No more nightmares_.

Newt sighed again, but happily.

This was true love.

**Author's Note:**

> I found this fic really difficult to write, partly because I've never written about drug use in any capacity before (I don't have any real life experience, lol), and partly because I've had a long dry patch when it comes to writing, so I'm afraid this isn't my best by a long shot. I doubt Newt would really fall so far, but then he does love Kaiju a whole bunch... Hannibal and Newt are pretty fun and colourful characters and I feel awful for doing this to them. Sorry, guys. I loved Pacific Rim and hope to write more for it really soon.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. :)


End file.
